


Look Back

by Kitexa



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Betrayal, Days of Future Past spoilers, Fluff and Angst, Hope, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitexa/pseuds/Kitexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the young Charles made contact with a different mind, when he looked inside Logan’s head?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Back

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for sometime. Finally was able to write it down. I hope it turned out alright. I haven't written anything over 1500 words in a while.

Voices. So many voices. Everywhere, all at once, surging like a sudden storm and Charles without shelter: _too much too much I can’t control it help--!_

With a cry, he pushes away from the machine, scrambling to disconnect his mind. Hank calls his name, a hand on his shoulder while Logan grabs his other arm, frustration, fear—so much fear—rolling off him the telepath understands now his shattered faith. _I told you so,_ he wants to say, but can’t manage through the panic threatening to cut off his air supply. 

“It’s okay, Charles.” Hank tries again, but he’s losing faith as well, probably has for years, poor fool. _You should have left me years ago._ Still, Hank responds as he always does and heads off in search of the problem. ‘Generator’ he mentions on his way out. Charles knows better. As does Logan, by the feel of it, anxieties morphing into pity. 

“It’s not the generator that’s busted, is it?”

Still perceptive, even now. Charles shakes his head. “Nn... no.” It’s never the machines, the drugs, what have you. Just Charles, only Charles, one bad trip after another that’s all he was… 

Logan’s speaking again, drawing him back and he wishes he wouldn’t, wishes he’d shut up and let Charles be. _I can’t do this,_ regurgitates his mind, which promptly echoes back aloud. Logan of course is having none of this, countering “yes you can, you’re just a little rusty.”

“It’s not a question of being rusty!” Cries the shaggy-haired man, “I know the mechanics, I haven’t lost that I just—“ _I can’t do it!_ He chews his lip, agitation (hopelessness) coaxing tears down his nose. “.. I’m sorry, Logan, this was a mistake.” Fingers flick the switch and he’s backing up, backing away, backing out of the damned room to his study and his scotch like he should have done from the start.   
He’s hardly out the door when Logan stops him short. 

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Charles stops, but doesn’t turn around. He fears for a moment the feral mutant means he, Charles, is this mistake, the error his elder self so foolishly held faith in. He can hear the liquor crying from its cabinet down the hall. “Leave me alone—“

“Hold on.” Logan crosses the distance, squeezing Charles’ headrest. An assuring gesture up front: he’s certain it’s a means to restrain him. Charles early tempts the theory, too, but again, the elder mutant cuts him off. “You’re right,” he says, as if he knows he’ll once again have the younger’s attention. It works, at any rate; Charles’ red-rimmed eyes flit up. They’re surprised to find a smile waiting. “You were supposed to come back here, Charlie. Just so happened I was the only one who could survive it.”

_What?_ Brow pinches, inhaling, shaky, soft. Whether he’s projected or not (and he hopes the latter) Charles can’t tell; Logan kneels before him anyway, still wearing that damned gentle smile. “I know you’ve lost faith in yourself. But I know a guy who might be able to restore it.” He taps his head, an invitation that drowns any remark considered by the younger man about Logan’s less than desirable associates.   
“You saw what happened with Cerebro, if you let me in, there’s no guarantee I won’t—”

“Hey.” Curt but gentle fingers guide Charles’ hand up, anyway. “I’ve been through worse than anything that brain a’ yours can cook up.” Something like amusement flecked behind his eyes, before Logan added with a touch of urgency, “ _trust me._ ”

Charles says nothing. _I can’t do this I’ll kill him kill them all this is a mistake—_ “Logan..”   
The elder mutant doesn’t waver. “Read my mind.” 

It’s the hope in his eyes that finally persuade Charles to concede. Raising his other hand to match the one in Logan’s grasp, his eyes close, stepping into the other man’s head. A violent string of images threaten to devour him: _Father – pain – Victor – pain - KaylaStrykerneedles – agony – JeanJeanJean—_

“A-aah..”

_‘Deeper, Charles’_ , soothes a voice through the chaos, _‘look past the pain, you can do it.’_

There doesn’t seem to be much choice. Charles ignores instinctual retreat, instead moving forward, deeper, past the pain.

When his eyes at last open, he’s lying in a monastery. 

Shoddy place if the ceiling is anything to go by; damp and darkened wood held up by stained stone pillars. _Ash_ , he decides, carefully siting up. The encompassing glow of the room –a mismatch of primary colors- concerns him; for a brief moment, Charles fears he’s taken one tablet too many. _Not this time, just telepathy at work._

Right… 

With a trembling sigh, he slides off the altar (an object he identifies only after his feet hit the ground. _How appropriately morose, Xavier._ ) Inside a memory, a dream, whatever it is, he’s here for an answer. _For faith_. Teeth find his lip, glancing around the room. It bears a similar resemblance to the overhead rot: bare bones of a splendor that faded long ago. _A pity_ , he thinks, but the thought bursts as soon as it appears; interior’s occupants stealing his attention. Armor-clad, the likes of which he’s never seen. Tightly-bound, all a sullen ink that matched the expression tacked to every face. Faces, Charles realizes, approaching each cautiously, he recognizes. _‘Kitty’_ whispers in his ears, the petite woman hunched over Wolverine. _‘Bobby’_ to the man beside her. Other names squeeze through the door— _‘Storm,’ ‘Bishop,’ ‘Warpath’_ —standing guard at the edge of the world. 

_That’s what this is, isn’t it, Charles?_ His own thoughts murmur, eyes coming to rest on a figure in the corner. Older than the others, graver too: a private melancholy tracing the lines in his face. As though the world’s weight still clung to broad shoulders, fighting every moment to crush them, permanently. _And yet, here he stands._ A man who’s used his pain to his advantage… 

So it appears. Hard to say without identification. This fellow’s name doesn’t come as easily to Charles as the others, though he feels it should be the simplest thing in the world. There’s a sense of familiarity, unrelated to the murmurs directing him through the fantasy. As though he knew (or ought to know) this man personally. 

A closer look reveals details he’d missed from further back. Subtle ones—the squared jaw, hairline, even his lashes covering what Charles imagines a stormy gray…

“Charles?”

The telepath reels, yanking back a hand he wasn’t aware he extended. _He’s awake?_ Startled blue lock with newly opened confusion; as predicted, his eyes are gray. Something cold seeps into his heart, remembering at last where he’s seen this face. “... Erik.” 

The elder mutant remains still, but his expression softens with uncanny tenderness. It hurts more than the situation should allow. “How did you find your way here?” It takes Charles more than a few seconds to find his voice. In that time, Erik closes all but a foot between them. “You’re so young...” As though mimicking Charles’ earlier action, a gloved hand reaches forward. The younger man’s heart twists, stepping out of range. 

“Logan- Logan sent me.” He stammers, glancing away. “Something about s-seeking faith.”

“…Ah.” Is the only response, so ambiguous the word Charles can’t help but raise his head. 

He wishes he hadn’t. Such intensity filled the older man’s gaze, it nearly tore his heart in two. _When was the last time he gazed at you so intensely?_ He didn’t know, ten years, sixty technically, it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, his stupor shattered the instant Erik _smiled_. “I can’t imagine why he’d send you back for me. Unless…” Erik trails off, turning towards a figure Charles had yet to notice. Another man, of equal age and concentration (so it seemed, unlike Erik, he held little signs of awareness) seated in what appeared to be a floating chair. _Is that…?_ Charles begins, but the thought dies midway, the older mutant musing beside him.

“I’ve missed your hair. Made such a fuss when it first fell out…”

Charles isn’t sure if he’s meant to laugh or nod his head. He doesn’t particularly feel like either and he’s certainly not about to take a visual cue: that damned smile hurts enough acknowledged, alone.   
“This isn’t the future I envisioned, you know.” Erik continues, rueful this time. “If I’d known what awaited us then, I would have ceased our quarreling long ago.”  
Charles can’t help it. He scoffs. “You tried to kill Raven. I’d hardly call that an end.”

Erik laughs. Regret burns bright in his eyes. “I’m not surprised.” He says, but before Charles has a chance to snap back, adds, “So many rash decisions… it’s a wonder you put up with me, all these years.” There’s little humor in his voice. Just as well, Charles can’t find any in himself. 

“I can’t imagine…” Mostly a private thought, but in part to Erik as well. He can hardly stand the man – well, younger version of the man- as is. To multiply by five… 

A wet sound scrapes his throat settling on his older self, again. Bound like Erik, like the others, in combat gear… _all that talk of peace, and you end up a soldier._ Just as grim. Just as alone. Because he’s noticed their absence, here: Kitty, Bobby, Storm, all survivors, all important... all faces he’s yet to meet, save for Erik and himself. Charles wipes his nose, a feeble smile tugging his mouth. 

“I should have listened to you.” He hates the words as they come but it’s the truth, and maybe that’s why. So many years spent cursing irrational action, believing himself and the state of ’73 the fallout of a killer’s quest for vengeance. “You always said I was naïve.” Naïve and foolish. Humanity doesn’t want to embrace change, nor do they want to better their ancestors by doing so. What they don’t understand frightens them, and just like Erik predicted, spirals into hatred. That little grin slips from the telepath’s face, catching somewhere in his beard, along with a few tears.

If Erik’s accidentally gained access to his thoughts, he doesn’t say or need to—he’s always let his actions speak for him. The arm Charles shied away from previous returns, catching his cheek before the other has time to process. 

“Don’t you ever say that.” The fire in his tone, however hushed the delivery, melt away his age; the Erik he once knew so well staring back. “Everything that’s happened here resulted from my actions. You tried to stop me, but I refused to listen.” A second arm now joins the first, cradling Charles’ chin. “I wish I had.” Maybe it’s the lighting, or the agony torturing Charles’ own heart, but he swears Erik looks like he might cry. A lump forms behind his tongue, challenging each time he tries to swallow. He’s seen Erik, his – the young Erik—weep before. Never like this. 

They stay that way, silent, transfixed, for a second or so longer, before the older mutant murmurs “…so much pain.” He pulls away. “I’m sorry, Charles.”

He isn’t sure why he says it. Probably to break the tension. Possibly out of… not quite pity, forgiveness is a long way off, but teetering towards those lines. “I know.”

Erik pauses, arching a brow. “Do you?” Charles can’t tell if intends hope or incredulity. Nor is he sure which to prefer. 

“On the plane, you—” _Different future, you never broke him out, before._ “On our way to Paris you apologized for everything.”

Both brows up now, as though trying to piece together this scene he’d have no recollection of. “I hope you know I meant it.”

Charles probably shouldn’t, they’ve already changed history, this Erik technically isn’t to blame. “… attempting to murder one’s sister doesn’t especially bode over well.” 

To his surprise, the metal-master dons a weary smile. “So that’s how that happened. I had a feeling I’d stir up trouble, but you insisted otherwise…” He nods towards the elder Xavier, chuckling sadly. It fades moments later with a sigh. “You mustn’t give up on us, Charles. On me.” Attention shifts back to the present one, the shaggy, trembling should-be professor. 

“How… how do I know you’ll listen to me?” Erik, Raven… locked into their ways with no room to improvise. What power had he to change their minds? “I’m not the man I was, I don’t—”

A firm grip over his shoulder cuts him off. “You don’t have to be.” There it is again, that tenderness, that… _hope_. It is hope. Faith. Everything he’s sought and failed to find for nearly a decade—here in this bloody, beaten-down sanctuary, it lies at last in the same man who took everything from him. Erik leans forward, pressing a careful kiss to Charles’ forehead. “I lead this world to ruin, Charles. Be the reason I change my mind.”

When Charles pulls away, he’s back in 1973.

“Find what you were looking for?” He hears it first in Erik’s voice. A double-take, hard blink, and Logan’s face takes over. 

“I... think so.” _Don’t give up, we need you._ That’s what he’d been trying to say. _We still need you, Charles._

The lights flicker overhead, below them, a mechanical hum. 

“Generator’s back on.” Hank announces, rejoining them in the room.

Charles smiles at his friend, a glimmer of hope laced between his lips. “Yes it is.” Ears burning beneath his hair, he tugs back the lever, heading towards Cerebro’s controls. _I won’t give up on you._

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like my new life's ambition is to make Sir Ian's Erik the unofficial mister fix-it of this movie.


End file.
